UGOUTS  AND  DREAMS 


LT.  FRANK  C.TILLSON 


Dugouts  and  Dreams 


Dugouts  and  Dreams 


By 
LT.  FRANK  C.  TILLSON 

i3ist  INFANTRY,  A.  E.  F. 


PHELPS  AND  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 
14  W.  Chestnut  St.,  Chicago,  111. 


Copyright  1920 

Phelps  and  Company 

Chicago 


9KLF 

URL 


ZDebicatton 


TO  RUDYARD  KIPLING 

To  the  Singer  of  the  Real  Songs,  the  Magician  of 

the  Pen, 
Who  sings  the  Joys  and  Sorrows,  the  Loves  and 

Lives  of  Men, 

I  dedicate  this  little  book,  with  gratitude,  today, 
For  the  hours  I've  spent  a-dreaming  "on  the  road 

to  Mandalay." 
"Oh,  East  is  East  and  West  is  West,  and  never  the 

twain  shall  meet," 
But  here's  a  token  from  the  West.  I  lay  it  at  your 

feet, 
Just  a  little  book  of  verses,  but  'tis  all  I  have  to 

bring; 
It  is  all  that  I  can  offer,  the  songs  I've  tried  to  sing. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Dedication — To  Rudyard  Kipling 7 

The  End  of  the  Trail 13 

Wreckage 15 

Playmates 16 

The  Stretcher  Bearers 17 

The  Mourning  Women 19 

Lights 20 

Veterans 21 

On  Guard 23 

Peggy 25 

The  Rainbow 27 

Dud 29 

A  Message  to  You 31 

Horrors  of  War . 32 

The  Sleeping  Village 35 

Mina 37 

The  "Dandy  First" 39 

The  Worlds 41 

Sweet  Peas 45 

To  a  Cavalry  Horse 47 

Going  Over 49 

Suzanne   51 

Good  for  Something 53 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The  Rubaiyat  of  an  Ambulance  Man 55 

Patsey 58 

The  Song  of  the  Bayonet 59 

The  Song  of  the  Sergeant 61 

To  Dorothy 63 

When  Omar  Was  a  "Candidate" 65 

The  Stanley  Man 67 

The  Last  Assignment 68 

Reveille 69 

Sketches 72 

Amelia 74 

Discharged 75 

Retreat  77 

Homesick 78 

Pioneers  80 

On  Clark  Street 82 

The  Misfits 84 

The  "Holy"  War 86 

Mumps  88 

Dreams 90 

Weather  and  Work 92 

The  Welcome 94 

Ambition 96 

Pal  o'Mine 98 

The  Cowboy's  Lament 100 

The  Parting  of  the  Ways 101 

Grace 102 

Coin'  Away 103 

10 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

An  Awful  Poem 105 

Coming  Home 107 

The  God  of  Conventionality 108 

Politics  no 

My  Pipe  and  I in 

The  Whisperin'  Lady 112 

Economy    113 

To  the  Goddess  Nicotine 114 

The  Song  of  the  "Bo". 116 

North  Dakota 119 

The  Slaves  of  the  Commonplace 121 

The  Jesters 123 

Afterword 125 


ii 


THE  END  OF  THE  TRAIL 

I  am  dreaming  alone  by  the  campfire, 
While  the  glowing  embers  pale, 

Of  a  little  white  cross  in  the  Argonne 
At  the  end  of  a  long,  long  trail. 

****** 

We  knew  the  trail  was  long  and  rough ; 

We  knew  where  it  might  lead ; 
Yet,  when  they  called  for  fighting  men 

In  that  grim  hour  of  need, 
Jim  sort  o'  grinned  and  looked  at  me, 

And  I  grinned  back — and  so 
We  just  shook  hands  and  hit  the  trail 

That  beckoned  us  to  go. 

We'd  followed  lots  of  trails  before, 

From  Argentine  to  Nome ; 
For  we  were  born  with  nervous  feet ; 

The  wide  world  was  our  home. 
And  we  were  pals — for  we  had  shared 

The  hunger,  want,  and  woe 
Of  all  the  trails,  in  all  the  lands, 

That  lured  us  to  and  fro. 


THE  END  OF  THE  TRAIL 

We  used  to  sit  beside  the  fire, 

When  daily  drills  were  through ; 
Then  Jim,  he'd  light  a  cigarette 

And  plan  on  what  we'd  do, 
And  where  we'd  go,  and  what  we'd  see, 

When  this  big  scrap  is  done — 
That  little  cross  in  the  Argonne 

Shows  where  old  Jim  has  gone. 

Somehow,  it's  awful  lonesome  here, 

And  no  one  seems  to  care, 
And  nothing  seems  to  count  for  much, 

Since  Jim  went  over  there. 
There's  just  one  thing  I'm  living  for, 

To  make  those  Boches  pay ; 
And  the  trail  looks  long  and  dreary, 

For  Jim,  he's  gone  away. 
****** 

There's  a  little  white  cross  in  the  Argonne, 
At  the  end  of  a  long,  long  trail ; 

And  there's  me,  alone  by  the  campfire, 
While  the  glowing  embers  pale. 


WRECKAGE 

Out  from  the  ocean  of  War, 
Cast  up  to  rot  on  the  shore : 

No  more  to  follow  the  star, 
Luring  us  on  as  before. 

Desolate  wreckage  of  War, 
Bodies  all  shattered  with  pain, 

Hulks,  that  shall  nevermore  sail 
Long  for  the  ocean  again. 

Only  in  dreams  shall  we  know 
Red,  flaming  joy  of  the  strife. 

Wrecked — in  the  midst  of  it  all. 
Nothing  is  left  us — but  Life. 


PLAYMATES 

Sort  o'  miss  my  playmate, 
Honest,  child,  I  do. 

Sort  o'  longing  for  the  day 
I'll  come  back  to  you. 

Heard  the  bugles  calling, 
Gaily  marched  away. 

Wonder  do  you  miss  me 
When  you  want  to  play  ? 

Sitting  here  and  smoking, 
Lonely  like  and  blue 

Wishing,  little  playmate, 
I  were  back  with  you. 


16 


THE  STRETCHER  BEARERS 

While  they're  passin'  round  these  Croix  de  Guerres 

an'  D.  S.  C.'s  an'  such, 

There's  a  guy  I'd  like  to  recommend — he  isn't  men 
tioned  much. 
His  job  is  nothin'  fancy,  an'  he  doesn't  get  much 

fame. 
He  is  just  a  stretcher  bearer,  but,  believe  me,  Bo, 

he's  game. 
(Who  am  I?  Why,  just  a  doughboy.    Perhaps  you 

know  my  rep. 
An'  I  used  to  kid  the  Pill  Brigade  fer  gittin'  out  of 

step, 
But  since  we've  had  this  war  of  ours,  I've  seen  what 

they  can  do, 
And  perhaps  this  little  story  may  explain  my  change 

of  view.) 

****** 

I  was  lyin'  there  one  mornin'  with  my  nose  jammed 

in  the  dirt, 
While  the  bullets  all  around  me,  made  the  tiny  dust 

clouds  spurt; 

Just  a-wishin'  I  was  thinner,  an'  longin'  to  be  home. 
Or  any  place  away  from  there,  from  Mexico  to 

Nome. 


THE  STRETCHER  BEARERS 

My  pal  was  lyin'  wounded,  up  a  hundred  yards 

ahead, 
An'  I  knew  we  couldn't  reach  him,  so  I  gave  him  up 

for  dead. 
Then  two  stretcher  bearers  started,  an'  I  figgered 

they  was  gone, 
But  they  never  hesitated — just  went  on,  and  on, 

and  on. 
They  just  sort  o'  hunched  their  shoulders,  like  it 

was  a  shower  of  rain, 
An'  they  went  out  to  my  buddy — an'  they  brought 

him  back  again. 

****** 

It's  not  so  hard  to  face  the  Boche,  an'  let  him  shoot 

at  you, 
When  you've  got  an  automatic,  an'  can  do  some 

shootin'  too, 
But  those  two  boys  went  marchin'  out,  without  a 

single  chance, 
Except  to  push  up  daisies  in  some  sunny  field  in 

France. 
They  saw  their  job  an'  did  it,  without  any  fuss  or 

talk, 
Just  as  calmly  and  serenely  as  you'd  start  out  for 

a  walk. 
Believe  me,  that  takes  courage,  an'  I'll  hand  it  to 

them,  then, 
You  may  call  them  non-combatants,  but  they  are 

soldiers  and  they're  Men. 

18 


THE  MOURNING  WOMEN 

Fields  of  poppies  blazing — scarlet  in  the  wheat, 
Winding  roadways  made  for  wandering  lovers'  feet, 
Close  cropped  hedges  in  between — poplars,  prim  and 

straight, 
And  all  the  mourning  women  gazing  through  the 

gate. 

Mild  eyed  cattle  grazing,  knee  deep  in  the  grass, 
Crowds  of  children  watching  as  the  soldiers  pass — 
France  has  given  gladly  of  the  best  she  yields. 
See  the  mourning  women,  working  in  the  fields. 

Half  a  nation  clad  in  black,  that  a  world  be  free, 
Did  their  share,  and  now  the  task  falls  to  you  and 

me; 

Soldiers  of  a  younger  land,  proud,  we  are,  and  glad, 
To  fight  for  mourning  women  who  gave  the  best 

they  had. 

Once  our  fathers  called  them — quick  they  came  to 

aid. 

Now  we  come  in  millions,  that  the  debt  be  paid. 
Facing  ever  forward,  our  far  flung  lines  advance, 
For  the  mourning  women,  emblems  now,  of  France. 

19 


LIGHTS 

The  lights  ashore  are  growing  plain, 
The  tiny  lights  that  led  us  home, 

Those  lonely,  loving,  little  lights, 
Along  the  roads  we  used  to  roam. 

Yet  we  will  miss  those  other  lights, 

Which  we  have  learned  to  love  and  know, 

The  ruddy  glow  of  Sibley  stoves, 

And  the  open  fires  in  the  gleaming  snow. 

The  star  shells  lighting  No  Man's  Land, 
The  searchlight's  beam  across  the  sky, 

The  many  colored  rockets'  flare, 

Where  men  creep  out  to  kill  and  die. 

The  candle  in  the  dugout's  gloom, 

Your  cigarette,  a  tiny  spark, 
That  fades  and  glows  so  friendly  like, 

Across  the  trench  in  the  sullen  dark. 

The  lights  of  home  gleam  tenderly — 
Those  other  lights,  in  vain,  must  call : 

Yet,  here  in  our  peaceful,  ordered  lives, 
God  knows,  we  will  miss  them  all. 

20 


VETERANS 

Gosh! 

Can  you  imagine 

ME 

A  veteran? 

I  ain't  got 

No  wooden  legs, 

Nor  white  whiskers, 

Nor  nothin'. 

Ever  since 

I  was  big  enough 

So  Maw  could  take  me 

To  see  the  parade 

On  Decoration  Day, 

I've  heard  'em  talk 

Of  veterans, 

An'  now 

I'm  one. 

Somehow — 

I  always  sort  o'  thought 

They  was  born 

Thataway, 


VETERANS 

But  now, 

I  realize 

That  other  war 

Was  fought  by  boys, 

Same  as  this  one — 

An'  they  prob'ly  was 

Just  as  blue, 

An'  homesick, 

An'  scared 

As  I  was. 

But,  say! 

Can  you  imagine 

ME 

Being  a  veteran 

Of  anything? 


22 


ON  GUARD 

As  I  walk  my  post  in  the  stillness, 

And  the  stars  are  gleaming  through, 
Then  the  whispering  boughs  of  the  pine  trees, 

They  are  singing,  dear  heart,  of  you. 
'Tis  the  wind  that  blows  from  the  Northland, 

From  the  snowclad  peak  and  plain, 
That  is  telling  the  pines  the  story, 

And  they  tell  it  to  me  again. 

It  may  be  that  I  am  but  dreaming, 

But  I  would  that  dreams  came  true ; 
For  the  pines  sing  of  lovelight  gleaming, 

Deep  down  in  the  eyes  of  you; 
And  they  whisper  that  you  are  longing 

For  the  man  who  marched  away, 
And  who  watches  now  in  the  darkness 

For  the  dawn  of  another  day. 

Then  they  murmur  soft,  you  are  waiting 
For  a  day  which  is  sure  to  come, 

When  a  world  that  is  purged  of  evil 
Shall  no  longer  hear  the  drum 


ON  GUARD 

Or  the  tramp  of  the  warring  nations, 
As  their  sons  march  forth  to  fight, 

For  the  things  their  fathers  taught  them, 
And  their  dreams  of  wrong  made  right. 

Now  the  eastern  sky  grows  brighter, 

With  the  flush  of  dawning  day, 
And  the  bugles  wake  the  sleeping  camp, 

But  they  drive  my  dreams  away. 
Then  I  whisper  low  to  the  pine  trees 

Of  all  that  I  long  to  do ; 
And  I  wonder  if  pines  in  the  homeland 

Will  be  telling  my  dreams  to  you. 


PEGGY 

She's  a  tantalizin'  divil,  wid  a  sparkle  in  her  eye, 
An*  a  smile  that  sets  me  heart  a-thumpin'  fast ; 
An'  I  tell  you  on  the  livil,  that  no  matter  how  I  try, 

Shure,  I  can't  forget  the  time  I  saw  her  last. 
For  I  tried  wan  day  to  make  mesilf  believe  I  didn't 

care, 
But  I  knew  that  I  was  lyin',  an'  mesilf,  he  knew 

it,  too, 
Though  I  know  she  has  no  heart  at  all,  'tis  bitter 

hard  to  bear, 
An'  I  wish  I  didn't  love  her — but  I  do. 

She's  a  dainty  little  fairy,  wid  a  foot  so  light  an' 

small, 
Ye  would  niver  think  it  big  enough  to  crush  the 

heart  av  me, 
But  she  wint  her  way  a-smilin'  an'  she  niver  cared 

at  all 

That  she  left  an  aching  hollow,  where  me  heart  it 
used  to  be. 

****** 

Shure,  there's  no  more  joy  in  workin',  an'  there's 
no  more  fun  in  play, 


PEGGY 

An'  the  world  is  dark  an'  dreary,  though  the  skies 

are  bright  an'  blue, 
But  I've  got  me  dreams  and  memories — she  can't 

take  those  away, 
An'  I  wish  I  didn't  love  her — but  I  do. 


THE  RAINBOW 

A  dismal,  drizzling  rain, 
Spread  like  a  mantle  of  woe, 
Over  the  hill  and  the  plain, 
Over  the  river  below. 
Dimly  we  see  through  the  mist, 
Walls  we  have  failed  to  destroy, 
Desolate,  deadly,  and  dark, 
The  village  of  Consenvoye. 

Sudden,  the  sun,  breaking  through, 

Paints  a  great,  glimmering  arch, 

Orange,  and  crimson,  and  blue, 

Over  the  path  where  we  march. 

White  clouds  of  shrapnel  above, 

The  order  comes  up  to  deploy, 

And  the  grim  line  goes  to  the  rainbow's  end 

In  the  village  of  Consenvoye. 

Swift,  on  its  mission  of  death, 
Down  through  the  rainbow's  sheen, 
Comes  a  shell  which  was  meant  for  me, 

27   . 


THE  RAINBOW 

But  my  buddy  steps  between — 
Faithful,  and  tender,  and  true, 
Giving  his  life  for  a  friend — 
And  so  he  waits  for  the  final  call, 
There  at  the  rainbow's  end. 


The  emblem  of  eternal  hope, 
Prophet  of  peace  and  joy — 
But  my  buddy  died  at  the  rainbow's  end, 
In  the  village  of  Consenvoye. 


DUD 

I  have  heard  men  tell  of  the  sweetest  words  that 

human  voice  can  speak, 
Of  the  tender  words  of  the  mother  tongue,  be  it 

Choctaw,  French,  or  Greek. 
Oh,  it  must  be  great,  in  the  pale  moonlight,  to  hear 

her  murmur,  "Yes." 
And  the  words  like  "mother,  home,  and   friend" 

mean  more  than  we  confess. 
All  these  words  are  sweet,  but  away  out  here,  where 

the  cannon  crash  and  roar, 
i  have  learned  a  word  that  is  sweeter,  far,  than  any 

I've  heard  before. 

Were  you  ever  out  on  a  lonely  plain,  when  the  moon 

was  awful  clear, 
And  you  looked  around  for  a  hole  to  duck,  but  never 

a  hole  was  near, 
While  the  German  shells  went  whizzing  by,  and 

closer,  and  closer,  drew, 
As  you  wondered  which  of  them  was  stamped  with 

the  number  meant  for  you, 
Till  at  last  one  hit  at  your  very  feet,  and  plastered 

you  with  mud ; 
Then  you  know  the  relief  that  a  word  can  bring, 

when  someone  whispers  "Dud." 

29 


DUD 

Did  you  ever  sit  in  a  tiny  trench,  where  you  knew 
you  had  to  stick, 

In  a  Christian  Science  dugout,  with  a  roof  six  inches 
thick, 

Not  a  thing  to  do,  but  just  sit,  and  cuss,  and  light  a 
cigarette, 

While  the  "Whiz-Bangs"  banged,  and  the  big  "Five- 
Nines"  tore  up  the  parapet? 

Then  you  surely  know  how  sweet  it  sounds,  when 
you've  heard  a  big  one  thud, 

And  you've  held  your  breath  for  a  million  years, 
just  to  hear  that  whisper  "Dud." 

I  suppose  when  the  war  is  finished,  when  the  victory 

is  won, 
When  the  hard  tack  all  is  eaten,  and  the  bully  beef  is 

gone, 
When  my  last  true  friend  has  been  bored  to  death 

by  the  tales  that  I  unload, 
Of  the  wondrous  way  that  my  life  was  saved,  when 

that  shell  did  not  explode, 
And  I  tell  the  world  for  the  umpteenth  time,  how  I 

waded  through  seas  of  blood, 
Then,  some  guy  will  murmur  in  accents  mild,  "Too 

bad  it  was  a  Dud." 


A  MESSAGE  TO  YOU 

There's  a  purple  haze  a-drifting  where  the  sky  and 

and  grey  hills  meet, 

Somewhere  in  France. 
There  are  crimson  poppies  blazing  in  the  cool  green 

of  the  wheat, 
Where  the  speckled  trout  are  leaping  in  the  tiny 

crystal  streams, 
And  the  long,  white  road  is  winding — where  the 

golden  sunlight  gleams; 
It  is  there  that  I'll  be  meeting  you,  along  the  Road 

of  Dreams, 

Somewhere  in  France. 

There's  a  lonely  land  that's  lying,  out  there  beyond 
the  wire, 

Somewhere  in  France. 

And  there's  little  time  for  dreaming,  when  the  order 
comes  to  fire, 

Somewhere  in  France. 

Where  the  star  shells'  glare  lights  the  waiting  line, 
And  the  lone  patrol  hears  the  bullets  whine — 
There's  a  heart  that  is  loving  you,  sweetheart  of 
mine, 

Somewhere  in  France. 

31 


HORRORS  OF  WAR 

I  used  to  think 

That,  if  I  finished  this  war 

With  a  full  assortment 

Of  arms  and  legs, 

There  wouldn't  be  a  thing 

To  worry  me, 

But  now 

I  know 

Better. 

This  is  the  awful  thought 
That  sends  the  cold  chills 
Chasing  up  and  down 
My  spine, 
Like  a  cootie 
Taking  his  morning 
Promenade. 

Some  day — 

Long  after  this  little  scrap 

Has  been  forgotten, 

32 


HORRORS  OF  WAR 

Say, 

Six  months 

From  now, 

I'm  apt  to  go 

To  some  Swell  Joint 

For  a  Regular 

Feed — 

You  know  the  kind 

I  mean, 

Where  all  the  men 

Wear  open  face 

Blouses, 

And  white  shirts, 

And  no  leggings — 

And  the  women, 

Oh,  Boy!! 

About  the  time 

The  highbrow 

K.  P. 

Is  bringing  in 

Seconds 

On  the  Slum, 

I'm  gonna 

Forget 

And  cuss 

Out  loud, 

Or  mention 

Cooties, 

Or  something. 

33 


HORRORS  OF  WAR 

And  then — 

There  will  be 

An  awful 

Silence, 

While  I 

Just  ooze  away 

To  look  for  a  shell  hole 

Or  a  drink — 

And,  pretty  soon, 

Some  dignified 

Old  Dowager 

Will  lift  up  her 

Double-barreled 

Monocle 

And  whisper, 

"Undoubtedly 

He  has  a  good  heart, 

A  most  worthy  man, 

And  a  stout  fighter, 

But, 

My  Dear, 

He  is  Socially 

Impossible." 


34 


THE  SLEEPING  VILLAGE 

The  tiny  village  of  Pierregot 
Dreams  of  the  days  of  long  ago, 
Of  the  gallant  knight  and  his  winsome  bride 
Who  drank  the  wine  of  the  countryside 
At  the  open  door  of  the  estaminet, 
Mounted  their  horses  and  rode  away 
Down  the  shady  road.    Then  armored  men 
Went  to  the  wars  and  returned  again. 
Prince  and  pauper  passed  to  and  fro, 
Through  the  pleasant  village  of  Pierregot. 

The  winding  streets  resound  again 

To  the  cadenced  tread  of  marching  men, 

And  at  the  pool  where  the  cross  roads  meet, 

The  women  tell  of  the  great  defeat. 

Now,  strange  men  talk  in  a  language  new, 

As  they  pause  to  rest  while  passing  through. 

No  pennons  flutter  their  colors  gay, 

As  the  brown  clad  ranks  swing  on  their  way 

With  singing  hearts,  to  meet  the  foe, 

Across  the  hills  from  Pierregot. 

35 


THE  SLEEPING  VILLAGE 

Seven  kilos  from  Pierregot, 
Is  wrath  and  ruin,  want  and  woe, 
Where  other  towns  of  ancient  France 
Woke  from  their  dreams  of  dead  romance 
To  hear  the  screams  of  wounded  men. 
Woke — to  be  crushed  to  earth  again. 
While,  over  fields  of  ripening  grain, 
Slowly  there  spreads  a  crimson  stain. 


The  pleasant  village  of  Pierregot 

Smiles  in  its  dreams — and  does  not  know. 


MINA 

Whin  the  Lord  looked  down  from  Hivin,  at  our 

toilin',  grievin'  earth, 
Thin  his  heart  was  filled  wid  pity  for  our  lack  av 

joy  an'  mirth ; 
So  He  called  His  angels  to  Him,  an'  He  sez  to  thim, 

sez  He, 
"We  will  sind  thim  down  a  sample  av  the  joys  that 

are  to  be." 

Thin  He  sint  his  angels  far  an'  wide,  an'  told  thim 
where  to  meet, 

Wid  the  various  ingredients  to  make  his  task  com 
plete. 

So  they  brought  a  dancing  sunbeam,  an'  a  fleecy 
summer  cloud, 

An'  a  bit  av  bottled  echo,  where  a  fairy  laughed 
aloud. 

Wan  brought  a  ray  av  moonlight,  an'  wan  an  artist's 

dream, 
An'  wan  the  lilting  lyric  av  a  sparkling  mountain 

stream. 
Another  found  a  frosty  morn,  an'  stole  the  sparkle 

from  the  air ; 
The  Lord,  He  smiled,  an'  wid  these  things,  He  made 

a  maiden  fair. 

37 


MINA 

Two  little,  shining,  baby  stars,  they  begged  to  be 

her  eyes; 
The  color  for  her  cheeks  an'  lips,  He  took  from 

sunset  skies. 
The  angels  thought  the  work  was  done,  but  sud- 

dinly  he  sint 
A  messenger  to  Satan  for  a  spice  av  divilmint. 

He  looked  an'  saw  His  work  was  good,  an'  sez  wid 

accents  glib, 
"  'Tis  a  great  improvement  on  the  job  I  did  wid 

Adam's  rib." 
So  He  placed  her  in  this  sad  old  world  to  bring  us 

joy  an'  bliss; 
(An'  I'm  tellin'  you,  she  did  that  same.    That's  why 

I'm  writin'  this.) 

L'Envoi 

Whin  the  Lord  looked  down  from  Hivin  at  our 

toilin',  grievin'  earth, 
And  His  heart  was  filled  wid  pity  for  our  lack  av 

joy  an'  mirth; 
And  He  sint  this  joyous  maiden,  ah,  He  lost  wan 

man,  I  fear, 
I'm  not  carin'   much   for  Hivin,  the   whiles   that 

Mina's  here. 


THE  DANDY  FIRST 

It  seems  at  least  a  million  years,  since  last  the  bugles 

blew, 
And  the  "Dandy  First"  in  dress  parade,  marched 

down  the  Avenue, 
With  Colonel  Joe  in  front  of  us,  as  proud  as  any 

king, 
While  the  cheering  from  the  sidewalks  made  the 

joyous  echoes  ring. 

The  band  was  playing  "Illinois"  and  led  the  gay  ad 
vance — 
Today  we  do  our  marching  over  half  the  roads  of 

France. 
It's  a  long  way  to  the  homeland,  and  a  long  time,  too, 

before 
The    "Dandy    First"    comes    swinging    down    the 

Avenue  once  more. 

There  is  no  music  playing  as  we  plod  on  through 

the  rain, 
For  the  band,  as  stretcher  bearers,  help  to  carry  in 

the  slain. 
We've  been  tried  with  bombs  and  bullets — we've 

been  tried  with  gas  and  shell, 

39 


THE  DANDY  FIRST 

But  the  Little  Colonel's  still  in  front — we'd  follow 

him  through  Hell. 
We're  not  so  pretty  as  we  were — a  bath  would  be  a 

treat, 
But  we  are  still  the  "Dandy  First,"  who  never  knew 

defeat. 
The  boys  you  knew  are  soldiers  now — all  honor  to 

them,  then, 
When  the  "Dandy  First"  comes  marching  down  the 

Avenue  again. 

There  will  be  some  faces  missing,  when  along  our 

ranks  you  glance, 
Oh,  the  little  wooden  crosses  in  the  shell-scarred 

fields  of  France — 
Where  our  boys  have  paid  the  blood  price — paid  it 

gladly,  full  and  fair, 
And,  in  paying,  taught  the  German  that  the  "Dandy 

First"  was  there. 
When  you  cheer  us  on  returning — don't  forget  the 

men  who  paid, 
For  they   knew   the  cost   and  faced   the  end,   as 

soldiers,  unafraid. 
Oh,  the  cheering  and  the  weeping — Oh,  the  mingled 

joy  and  pain, 
When  the  "Dandy  First"  comes  marching  down  the 

Avenue  again. 


40 


THE  WORLDS 

This  is  but  one 
Of  many  worlds, 
And  this  I  know 
In  three  short  years, 
That  I  have  lived 
In  several. 

First- 
There  was  a  world 
Of  mountain  heights 
And  plains,  of  valleys  fair, 
All  green  and  gold ; 
Of  work  and  play 
And  trout  that  leaped 
From  crystal  streams. 
It  was  a  pleasant  world, 
But  small. 

Next- 
There  came  a  world 
Of  college  life, 
Fraternities, 
Of  books  and  girls, 


THE  WORLDS 

And  fellowship 

With  careless  Youth; 

A  world  where  petty  things 

Loomed  large — and  yet 

It  also  was 

A  pleasant  world. 

Then- 
There  was  a  third, 
A  sterner  world, 
A  world  of  men, 
And  drills,  and  work 
That  tried  their  souls; 
Of  weary  days, 
And  lonely  nights ; 
Of  dumb  obedience — 
We  knew  not  why — 
And  still  there  were 
Great  moments 
Which  repaid  our  toil 
In  full. 

And,  all  the  while, 
We  knew  that  soon 
We  must  pass  on. 

And  then — 

We  crossed  the  sea, 

Unto  another  world, 

42 


THE  WORLDS 

A  place  of  ruined  homes, 

And  shattered  men 

Who  smiled 

At  Life  and  Death; 

A  world  of  pain, 

And  dirt, 

And  crawling  things ; 

Of  gas  that  choked, 

And  shells  that  tore 

The  tender  flesh ; 

When  no  man  dared 

To  dream 

Of  what  was  past, 

Or  plan 

One  day  ahead ; 

And  yet,  this  was 

A  joyous  world, 

Not  only  with 

The  flaming  joy 

Of  Battle— but 

The  pleasure  found 

In  fellowship  with  men 

From  every  land. 

We  met  and  passed 

And  each  one  knew, 

That  come  what  might, 

His  life,  at  least, 

Was  justified. 

43 


THE  WORLDS 

Now — 

We  dwell  in  still 

Another  world, 

Of  villages  that  sleep 

In  quiet  woods; 

Of  looking  back 

To  worlds  where  once 

We  lived. 

While  all  beyond 

Is  veiled  in  mist. 

This  is  but  one 
Of  many  worlds, 
And  always,  we 
Must  gaze  ahead, 
And  wonder  what 
The  next  may  be. 


44 


SWEET  PEAS 

There's  a  sort  o'  fairy  fragrance  comes  a-floating 

on  the  breeze, 
And  I  seem  to  hear  a  whisper,  like  the  murmur  of 

the  trees, 
When  the   zephyrs   from  the  mountains  set  them 

sighing  soft  and  low, 

In  that  valley  'neath  the  Rockies,  in  the  land  where 
sweet-peas  grow. 

Sweet-pea  blooms — and  Memory 
Of  the  dreams  I  dreamed  in  vain, 
But  the  scent  of  sweet-pea  blossoms, 
Oh,  it  brings  my  dreams  again. 

I  can  see  it  there,  all  green  and  gold,  with  peaks  of 

amethyst, 
And  the  silver  ribbons  here  and  there,  where  rivers 

turn  and  twist 
Through  that  valley,  where  the  sunshine  drives  away 

all  care  and  gloom, 
In  the  golden  light,  all  pink  and  white,  I  see  the 

sweet-peas  bloom. 

45 


SWEET  PEAS 

When  that  perfume  fills  the  air, 
Then  my  dream,  so  real  it  seems, 
That  I  see  once  more  the  valley 
That  I  call  my  Land  o'  Dreams. 

In  this  Land  o'  Dreams,  a  maiden  fair  is  waiting 

now  for  me, 
And  I  long  to  go  where  sweet-peas  grow.    'Tis  there 

that  I  would  be, 
In  the  Land   o'  Dreams,  in   Sweet-Pea  Land,  the 

Land  of  Days  That  Were, 

For  the  scent  of  sweet-pea  blossoms,  it  is  calling  me 
to  her. 

Sweet-Pea  Girl,  I'm  coming  back, 
For  I  dreamed  that  you  might  care, 
And  the  scent  of  sweet-pea  blossoms 
Seemed  the  fragrance  of  your  hair. 

46 


TO  A  CAVALRY  HORSE 

Old  friend  of  the  ranges,  they've  caught  you  at  last, 

And  forced  you  to  drill  in  a  line ; 
"Fours  right.  Column  left,"  till  the  long  day  has 
passed, 

And  I  know  how  you  feel,  pal  o'  mine. 
How  you  long  for  the  wide,  empty  spaces. 

They  are  calling  to  you  as  to  me, 
And  the  wind  from  the  homeland  breathes  soft  in 
our  faces, 

As  it  whispers,  "Come  back  and  be  free." 

Yet  we  can't  go  back — we  must  go  on, 

To  the  range  across  the  sea ; 
For  the  Big  Boss  says  there's  a  job  for  us 

In  the  cause  of  Liberty. 
They  are  needing  us,  old  Pinto  Horse, 

There  is  work  for  us  over  there, 
And  we  may  come  back,  but  if  we  don't, 

There's  no  one  much  to  care. 

There  must  be  some  place  up  in  Heaven, 

Where  the  angels  don't  go  very  much, 

47 


TO  A  CAVALRY  HORSE 

Where  there's  room  for  a  couple  of  rivers, 

And  some  mountains,  and  pine  trees,  and 
such. 

By  the  brand  on  your  hip,  they  will  know  you. 
The  brand  on  my  heart  is  as  plain. 

Then,  together,  we'll  go  to  the  homeland, 

And  the  smell  of  the  sagebrush  again. 


GOING  OVER 

Three  days  ago 

We  strolled  down  Broadway, 

And  all  the  maidens  smiled,  for  we 

Were  all  dolled  up  in  leather  putts 

And  everything; 

And  when  we  left 

The  waiters  and  the  taxi  men 

Shed  bitter  tears. 

But  now — 

We  are  afloat  aboard  a  censored  ship 

Upon  a  censored  sea, 

And  all  this  junk  I'm  writing  here 

Wrill  likely  meet  the  same  sad  fate 

And  die  of  seasickness. 

As  Goldstein  says, 

"Full  many  a  gem  of  purest  ray,  serene, 

The  dark,  unfathomed  caves  of  ocean  bear, 

Which,  dodging  shark  and  submarine, 

Is  laid  to  rest  in  the  Censor's  lair." 

But,  just  the  same, 

I  feel  that  it  will  be 

A  great  relief 

To  write  it  down. 

49 


GOING  OVER 

Speaking  of  "dark,  un fathomed  caves" 

My  home  address,  at  present, 

Is  Number  Three  upon  the  sixty-seventh  floor 

Beginning  from  the  top. 

In  fact  I  am  so  far  below 

The  surface,  that  I  have  to  stand 

Upon  my  toes 

To  reach 

The  bottom. 

My  bunk  is  in  the  second  layer,  and 

To  use  a  poker  term, 

"The  ceiling  is  the  limit." 

Thank  Gawd,  I'm  thin! 

Old  Pullman  would  take  off  his  hat, 

And  Mr.  What's  His  Name,  who  cans  sardines, 

Would  gaze  in  silent  awe, 

Could  they  but  see 

My  home,  sweet  home. 

Thank  Gawd,  again, 
I  didn't  join  the  navy. 


SUZANNE 

In  the  Land  of  Luxembourgers, 
Dwells  a  maiden,  fair  to  look  on  ; 
Answers  to  a  name  most  wondrous, 
Name  that  sets  my  heart  a-flutter, 

Suzanne, 

Suzanne  of  the  Cows. 
Eyes  with  tender  light,  soft  gleaming, 
Even  as  the  cows  she  tendeth, 
Manicures,  and  leads  to  water. 
Figure  like  a  German  Venus, 
As  she  leans  upon  her  pitchfork, 
So  in  all  my  dreams  she  cometh, 
Stealing  softly,  like  a  vision, 
Smiles  upon  me  in  the  darkness, 
Showing  teeth  that  would  make  joyous 
Kolynos,  the  God  of  Dentists, 
Smiles  once  more  and  straightway  goeth 
Forth  into  the  Ewigkeit. 

Du,  geliebte,  schonste,  Madchen, 
Tell  me,  must  you  immer  arbeit  ? 
Can  you  never  stop  to  listen 
To  my  songs,  oh,  Bocheland  fairy, 


SUZANNE 

Songs  of  love,  of  love  and  longing 

For  your  smiles,  mein  lieber  Fraulein  ? 

Long  have  I  been  searching  for  you 

In  the  land  across  the  water. 

Now  the  Gods  have  led  me  to  you, 

Nevermore  can  I  forget  you. 

Ever  must  I  stop  and  listen, 

As  the  East  Wind  whispers  softly 

In  my  ear,  that  name  entrancing, 

Suzanne, 
Suzanne  of  the  Cows. 


GOOD  FOR  SOMETHING 

I  was  always  a  shiftless  sort  of  cuss, 
I  was  good  for  nothing  and  didn't  care ; 
Just  a  rolling  stone  and  shy  on  moss, 
But  I'm  good  for  something  "over  there." 

If  you  could  have  seen  me  a  week  ago, 

You  would  never  have  dreamed  that,  back  at  home, 

There's  a  white  haired  mother  thinks  little  Joe 

Is  headed  sure  for  the  White  house  dome. 

She's  just  as  sure  I'll  be  president, 

Or  a  judge,  or  some  such  shining  light 

As  she  used  to  be,  before  I  went 

And  beat  it  from  home  that  summer  night. 

I  beat  it  away  'cause  the  town  was  slow 
And  I  wanted  to  see  what  life  could  give. 
Well,  I've  seen  enough  and  I'd  like  to  go 
Back  to  her  side,  where  I  used  to  live. 
But  I  got  in  wrong  and  I  wrote  her  lies — 
Sure,  it  can't  be  a  sin  to  bring  her  joy, 
But,  at  last,  I  can  look  in  her  dear  eyes, 
And  she'll  still  be  proud  of  me,  her  boy. 

53 


GOOD  FOR  SOMETHING 

I  hadn't  shaved  for  a  week  or  two, 
And  I  hadn't  bathed  since  God  knows  when ; 
Just  a-rambling  by  when  the  bugles  blew 
And  I  heard  them  asking  for  fighting  men. 
"Fight"  was  always  my  middle  name, 
So  I  talked  to  the  Sergeant  and  here  I  am, 
And  for  once  in  my  life,  I  can  play  the  game. 
"You're  good  for  something,"  says  Uncle  Sam. 

I'm  a  poet  punk  and  the  meter's  wrong, 

As  you  surely  know,  if  you've  heard  me  through, 

But  I  had  to  sing  you  this  little  song, 

And  please  don't  ask  why  I  picked  on  you. 

For  I'll  tell  the  world  that  it's  great  to  hear 

That  I'm  good  for  something  now,  somewhere, 

Though  I  never  could  live  for  it  over  here, 

I  can  die  for  my  country  "over  there." 


54 


The  City  Lights,  they  beckon,  shining  clear, 
And  whisper,  "Love  and  Laughter  wait  you  Here, 
When  all  the  Jass  Bands  play  upon  the  Shore, 
Why  dwells  my  former  Slave  upon  the  Pier?" 

I  answer  then,  "Oh,  Mistress  of  my  Heart, 
My  Love  shall  last  till  Death  doth  part, 
And  I  am  true,  but  Uncle  Sam  hath  said 
That  all  his  boys  need  sleep — so  have  a  Heart." 

I  would  not  Fate,  nor  Sergeants,  wise,  condemn, 
Nor  e'en  complain  of  Rules  proclaimed  by  them, 
But,  Shade  of  Caesar,  tell  me  why  I  should 
Be  forced  to  hit  the  Hay  at  Ten  P.  M. 

Behold,  I  have  a  Maiden,  passing  fair, 
My  Love  for  Her,  by  All  the  Gods,  I  swear, 
Then  grab  my  Lid  at  Nine  o'clock, 
Ah,  Cruel  Fate,  and  leave  Her  lonely  there. 

55 


RUBAIYAT  OF  AN  AMBULANCE  MAN 

Torn  from  her  side,  I'm  hurried  Where? 
And  from  that  spot,  perchance,  to  Over  There. 
Ah,  many  a  drop  of  Blood  from  Kaiser  Bill 
Shall  drown  the  Memory  of  my  Despair. 


Of  Right  and  Left  Oblique  and  Right  Front  Into 

Line, 

I  know  no  word,  but  why  should  I  repine, 
When  one  Command  of  "As  you  Were" 
Will  cover  all — and  that  I  have  down  fine? 


Thou  should'st  prepare  for  Future  Life,  some  say, 
And  look  for  thy  Reward  on  that  far  better  Day, 
But,  ah,  methinks  that  Two-Bits,  cash  in  hand, 
Is  greater  far,  than  all  my  Next  Month's  Pay. 


Ah,  my  Beloved,  fill  the  cup  that  clears 
Today  of  Past  Regrets  and  Future  Fears, 
And  pass  it  on  to  some  more  lucky  man, 
Because,  these  days,  I'm  drinking  Tea,  my  dears. 


Indeed,  indeed,  Repentance  oft  before,  I  swore, 
But  was  I  sober  when  I  swore  ? 
But  now,  I'm  off  the  Stuff  for  Life, 
If  I  should  die  before  this  war  is  o'er. 

5*5 


RUBAIYAT  OF  AN  AMBULANCE  MAN 

Yon  silver  Moon  that  shines  on  Street  and  Plain, 
How  oft  hereafter  shall  She  wax  and  wane, 
And  see  my  Love  with  Someone  Else, 
But  look,  amid  the  Throng,  for  me,  in  vain. 


And  when  like  her,  Oh,  Saki,  with  thy  joys, 
Thou  shalt  pass  round  mid  Mirth  and  Noise, 
Just  turn  an  Empty  Glass  where  once  I  sat 
And  say,  "He's  in  the  Army,  boys." 


PATSEY 

There's  a  sweet  colleen,  I  long  to  see, 

Tis  Patsey. 
And  in  all  me  dreams,  she  smiles  at  me, 

Does  Patsey. 

Ah,  whin  I  was  young  and  free  from  care, 
Me  heart  on  me  sleeve,  I  used  to  wear, 
But  she  stole  it  away,  the  maiden  fair, 

Called  "Patsey." 

Yis,  she  stole  it  away  in  broad  daylight, 

Did  Patsey. 
But  she  only  took  what  belonged  by  right 

To  Patsey. 

Shure  she's  welcome  to  it,  if  it  will  bring 
A  smile  to  her  face.    'Tis  a  worthless  thing, 
But  'twas  all  I  had,  so  today  I  sing 

Of  Patsey. 

This  world  was  all  sunshine  whin  she  was  near, 

Fair  Patsey, 
But  now  'tis  all  cloudy  and  dark,  and  drear, 

My  Patsey. 

For  whin  she  smiles  all  the  world  is  glad, 
And  whin  she  frowns,  then  me  heart  is  sad, 
But  smiles  or  frowns,  still  wid  love  I'm  mad, 

For  Patsey. 

58 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  BAYONET 

This  is  the  song  of  the  bayonet, 
That  he  sings  to  his  chosen  ones, 
Who  know  not  fear — it  soundeth  clear, 
Mid  clamour  of  the  guns. 

"The  father  of  my  father  was  a  spear, 

Wherewith  the  knights,  in  days  of  long  ago, 

Were  wont  to  sally  forth  without  a  fear, 

To  wrest  a  captive  maiden  from  the  foe. 

For  me,  no  tasks  romantic,  I   wear  no  ribbands 

bright. 

My  ancestors  would  scarce  acknowledge  me. 
'Tis  mine  to   fight  through    the  long,  long   night, 
For  the  dawn  of  Liberty." 

Over  the  top,  with  hearts  aflame, 
And  eyes  with  hate  aglow, 
Singing  the  song  of  the  bayonet, 
Which  he,  who  lives,  must  know. 

"Oh,  I  am  keen,  and  strong,  and  bright, 
And  I  know  no  thought  of  fear, 
When  you  creep  in  No  Man's  Land  at  night, 
And  you  feel  the  foe  is  near ; 

59 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  BAYONET 

When  you  struggle  there  in  the  silent  dark, 
With  never  an  eye  to  see, 
And  the  noiseless  steel  has  reached  its  mark, 
Then,  mine  let  the  triumph  be." 

It  is  kill  or  die,  when  you  rush  the  foe, 
And  life  is  very  sweet, 
Then  this  is  the  song  of  the  bayonet, 
To  the  tune  of  the  pounding  feet. 

"I  was  not  made  for  the  weary  wait, 

Where  the  searching  bullets  hum, 

But  mine  is  the  moment,  wondrous,  great, 

When  the  word  to  charge  has  come. 

Oh,  the  butt  is  good,  and  the  bullet's  good, 

Yet  I  lead  all  the  rest, 

When  the  day  of  Great  Adventure  dawns, 

And  death  seems  but  a  jest." 

The  Hun,  he  hates  the  cold,  cold  steel. 
The  cold  steel  hates  the  Huns. 
So,  hark  to  the  song  of  the  bayonet, 
That  he  sings  to  his  chosen  ones. 

60 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  SERGEANT 

I'm  not  a  gorgeous  General, 
Nor  yet  a  gold  cord  Loot, 
For  all  I  get  is  stripes  to  wear, 
To  decorate  my  suit. 

You  will  never  read  about  me  in  the  papers ; 

And  they'll  never  pin  a  medal  onto  me, 
But  I'll  do  my  damndest  just  the  same, 

For  the  "land  of  the  brave  and  the  free." 
Though  the  non-com  is  the  backbone  of  the  Army, 

Someone  else  will  grab  the  glory  and  the  fame. 
For  the  worry  and  fret  is  all  that  we  get. 

Our  reward  is  the  joy  of  the  Game. 

Did  I  hear  you  say  this  life  is  "so  romantic"  ? 

I  thought  it  was  myself,  before  the  day, 
When  I  slung  a  blanket  roll  upon  my  shoulder, 

And  to  be  a  "hero,  bold,"  I  marched  away. 
So  I'll  do  my  bit  in  Uncle  Samuel's  army. 

As  a  soldier,  I  must  never,  never  shirk, 
But  forget  about  the  romance  and  the  courage, 

For  this  army  life  is  simply,  damn  hard  work. 

61 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  SERGEANT 

1  know  that  I  will  never  be  a  hero, 

And  lead  my  dashing  soldiers  to  the  fray, 
But,  somehow,  I  don't  care,  for  I  know  that  over 
there, 

There  will  be  some  little  part  for  me  to  play. 
No,  you'll  never  see  my  picture  in  the  papers, 

And  I'll  never  hear  the  cheering  of  the  mob, 
For  I'm  just  the  guy  who  does  the  work  that's 
needed. 

Give  me  credit — it's  a  man-sized  job. 


62 


TO  DOROTHY 

Ye  may  sing  of  the  light  of  the  cold,  pale  moon, 
Or  the  light  of  the  sunset  skies, 

But  I'm  happy,  quite, 

When  I  see  the  light 
That  shines  in  Milady's  eyes. 


Ye  may  sing  of  the  brown  of  the  Autum  leaves, 
But  I  sing  of  Milady's  hair, 

For  'tis  gold  and  brown, 

And  a  fitting  crown, 
For  the  head  of  Milady  fair. 

Ye  may  sing  of  the  pink  of  rosebuds  fair, 
Or  the  white  of  the  snow-capped  peaks, 

But  the  rosebud's  glow, 

Nor  the  soft,  white  snow 
Can  compare  with  Milady's  cheeks. 

Ye  may  sing  of  the  red  of  the  ruby,  bright, 
Or  the  rose  where  the  wild  bee  sips ; 

They  are  fair.     Ah,  yes, 

But  what  happiness 
Might  be  found  on  Milady's  lips. 

63 


TO  DOROTHY 

L'Envoi 

Ye  may  sing  of  the  joys  of  our  younger  days, 
Of  the  days  when  our  hearts  were  free, 

But  I'll  still  forsake 

All  these  joys  and  take, 
Just  my  dreams — of  Dorothy. 


64 


WHEN  OMAR  WAS  A  "CANDIDATE" 

Men  strive  and  toil  to  reach  some  high  Domain, 
And,  when  arrived,  wish  they  were  once  again 

Where  they  have  been.    Tonight,  I  know 

That  I  have  done  my  Damndest — but  in  Vain. 

My  Songs  of  Wine  and  Women,  long  ago 

Were  sung,  before  this  time  of  Woe, 
When  all  the  Day,  from  Reveille  to  Taps, 

I  cannot  sing — for  Toil  is  all  I  know. 

When  Taps  is  blown — why  Waking  stay, 
And  in  your  mind  revive  the  Trials  of  Day. 

Sleep  while  you  may — and  sleeping  dream 

Of  Pleasant  Things — for  Dawn  brings  Reveille. 

Then  should  the  Gods  inquire  what  Boon 

Would  cause  my  Muse  to  sing  its  sweetest  Tune, 

I'd  answer  them,  "Ah,  let  me  slay 

That  Bugler  Guy — and  sleep  till  Noon. 

That  Golden  Hat  Cord,  gleaming  bright, 
Was,  but  a  foolish  Vision  in  the  Night, 

65 


WHEN  OMAR  WAS  A  "CANDIDATE" 

And  I  shall  wake  to  find  a  week's  K.  P. 

Awaiting  me,  when  Morning  brings  the  Light. 

What  matters  it  that  I  shall  never  be  a  "Loot," 
Whom  Privates,  yea,  and  Sergeants  too,  salute ; 

When  humble  Toil  brings  Happiness, 

And  Board,  and  Clothes,  and  Thirty  Per,  to  boot  ? 


66 


THE  STANLEY  MAN 

He  is  dressed  in  a  suit  of  khaki, 

And  he  packs  a  gun  with  the  rest, 
For  that  bit  of  white  is  the  only  sign 

That  he's  one  of  the  Army's  best. 

He  is  one  of  those  who  stuck  it  out, 

He  has  done  what  few  men  can ; 
He  has  gone  on  his  nerve  when  his  strength  gave  out, 

He's  a  soldier — and  a  Man. 

He  will  cross  the  top  with  the  same  old  dash, 
Face  the  foe  with  the  same  old  smile ; 

And  he'll  fight  like  Hell  to  the  bitter  end, 
For  that  is  the  Stanley  style. 

No,  you  don't  salute  when  you  meet  him — yet, 

For  he's  only  a  private  still ; 
But  that  bit  of  white  he  worked  to  win, 

Is  to  show  you  that  soon — you  will. 


67 


THE  LAST  ASSIGNMENT 

If  I  should  "go  West"  tomorrow, 

Till  I  came  to  the  golden  gate, 
Where  soldier  and  slacker,  Buck  and  Loot, 

Alike  must  stand  and  wait 
To  report  to  the  Great  Commander, 

Of  all  they  have  done  below, 
And  wait  for  the  last  assignment, 

Till  Gabriel's  bugles  blow. 

Then  I'll  stand  up  straight  at  attention, 
And  salute  in  the  Stanley  style — 

"Sir,  I  report  for  duty." 

Then  He'll  say  with  a  weary  smile, 

"You  have  spent  three  months  at  Stanley, 
I  know  that  bunch  too  well, 

You  would  not  feel  at  home  in  Heaven." 

"Hey,  Pete !     Pass  one  to  Hell." 


68 


REVEILLE 

"I  can't  get  'em  up — I  can't  get  'em  up, 
I  can't  get  'em  up  in  the  morning." 

That's  the  sound  we  hear,  when  daylight  is  near, 
And  we  have  to  roll  out  in  the  dawning. 

Then  we  curse  a  soldiers  life  as  we  grab  for  belt  and 

knife, 

And  we  wonder  why  we  ever  went  to  fight. 
As  we  try  to  lace  our  shoes  with  our  fingers  nearly 

froze,  ' 
Then  we  know  what  Sherman  said  was  surely 

right. 
We  don't  feel  like  soldiers,  bold,  as  we  crawl  out  in 

the  cold ; 

Still  you  hear  us  swear,  but  never  hear  us  whine. 
When  you  hear  the  Seargeants  yell,  you  may  know 

we're  getting — well — 
A  request  for  speed  when  falling  into  line. 

As  we  think  of  home,  sweet  home,  and  we  swear 

we'll  never  roam, 
From  the  safe  and  cozy  place  we  left  behind ; 

69 


REVEILLE 

Then  of  tub  baths,  hot,  we  dream  and  of  houses 

warmed  by  steam, 
And  the  girl  who,  when  we  left — well,  never 

mind. 
When  this  war  for  peace  is  o'er,  we'll  go  back  to  her 

once  more, 

And  we'll  hope  our  sons  will  never  have  to  go, 
But  should  then,  the  bugles  call,  we'll  be  ready,  one 

and  all, 
To  protect  our  Flag  and  Country  from  the  foe. 


Still,  we  know  that  we  shall  long  for  that  bugles' 

morning  song, 
When  we've  settled  down  to  play  that  peaceful 

game; 
And,  somehow,  life  will  be,  different  far,  for  you 

and  me, 

Just  because  the  bugles  called  us  and  we  came. 
And  I  hope  that  I  shall  hear,  when  the  end  is  drawing 

near, 

And  old  Gabriel  blows  his  trumpet  in  the  dawn 
ing, 
just  that  same  old  bugle  call,  that  we  love  far  more 

than  all, 

Though  we  hate  to  hear  it  sounding  in  the  morn 
ing. 

70 


REVEILLE 

"I  can't  get  'em  up — I  can't  get  'em  up." 
Can't  you  hear  that  bugle  call? 

"I  can't  get  'em  up — I  can't  get  'em  up, 
I  can't  get  'em  up  at  all." 


SKETCHES 


Pup  Tents 

Sing  a  song  of  pup-tents 
Pitched  amid  the  trees — 
If  your  head  is  covered, 
Then  your  feet  will 

freeze. 
Roll  and  touch  the  tent 

pole — 

Set  her  up  again. 
Wonder  what  will  hap 
pen, 
If  it  starts  to  rain. 

Two    of    you    stuck    in 

'em- 
Room  for  only  one ; 
Have     to     take     turns 

breathing. 

That's  the  way  it's  done. 
Boulder  jabs  you  in  the 

ribs — 

Lie  and  cuss  your  fate, 
Much  too  tired  to  dig  it 

out — 
Ain't  the  Army 

GREAT? 


Monkey  Drill 

I  love  constant  drilling. 

I  love  hikes  each  day. 

I  love  rising  early 

To  the  tune  the  bugles 
play, 

But  I  want  to  tell  you 

What  I  love  the  most. 

Give   me   broncho-bust 
ing 

And  I'll  give  up  the 
ghost. 

Lawdy,  how  I  love  it ! 

Lawdy,  hear  my  plea. 

Send  an  bucking,  jump 
ing, 

Broncho,  here  to  me. 

Send  one  smooth  and 
rounded. 

Oh,  hear  me,  I  implore: 

For,  Lawdy,  I  am  telling 
you, 

That  I  am  SORE. 


SKETCHES 

Pay  Day 

I  work  for  my  Uncle,  one  dollar  per  day. 
I  do  my  own  washing,  no  board  bills  to  pay. 
For  life  in  the  Army,  I've  this  much  to  say — 
My  Gawd,  how  the  money  rolls  in. 


The  Squad 

Comrades  mine,  will 

you  remember, 
In  the  days  which  are  to 

come, 
How  we  lived  and 

worked  together, 
As  we  heard  the  warlike 

drum? 
Who  can  tell  what  years 

may  bring  us? 
Come  what  may — 'tis  all 

worth  while, 
For  the  eight  of  us, 

united, 
Face  the  future  with  a 

smile. 


Night 

From  the  tents  the  lights 

are  gleaming, 
And   you    seem    so    far 

away — 
Then  the  notes  of  Taps 

come  sighing — 
Slowly  ends  the  soldiers' 

day. 
One  by  one,  the  tents  are 

darkened. 
Silence  falls,  as  drops 

the  dew. 
Leaving  all  the  world  to 

darkness ; 
Leaving  me — to  dreams 

of  you. 


73 


AMELIA 

Is  it  because  your  heart  is  young? 
Is  it  the  blarney  on  your  tongue  ? 

Why  do  I  long  for  you  ? 
Why  do  I  dream  of  your  rosebud  lips, 
Sweet  as  the  flower  where  the  wild  bee  sips  ? 
Why  is  my  heart  at  your  finger  tips  ? 

Girl  o'  mine,  tell  me  true. 

Is  it  the  witching  wiles  of  you? 

Is  it  the  warmth  in  the  smiles  of  you  ? 

Why  am  I  loving  you  ? 

Oh,  the  silvery  moon  wrought  a  wondrous  spell, 
And  deep  in  my  heart  has  come  to  dwell 
A  happy  dream,  that  I  dare  not  tell. 

Dear  little  dream — come  true. 


74 


DISCHARGED 

I  am  sick  o'  the  life  in  the  army. 

I  am  tired  of  the  bugle's  call. 

I  am  weary  o'  drillin'  an'  hikin'. 

Thank  the  Lord,  I  am  through  with  it  all. 

I  have  done  my  bit  o'  strafing  with  the  Fritzies, 

I  have  had  the  Allied  cooties  strafing  me. 
I  have  seen  a  lot  o'  places,  met  a  lot  o'  foreign  races, 

But,  at  last,  the  job  is  over  and  I'm  free. 
So  I'll  buy  a  suit  o'  civvies  an'  they  won't  be  olive 
drab, 

And  I'll  chuck  my  old  tin  derby  from  the  train : 
Then  I'll  take  my  sixty  dollars  and  I'll  buy  some 
linen  collars, 

And  be  dressed  up  like  a  white  man  once  again. 

Then  I'm  going  to  sling  my  feet  beneath  the  table, 
Where  there's  napkins  and  a  tablecloth  of  white, 

For  I  know  my  mother's  pickin'  out  the  largest,  fat 
test  chicken 
For  her  soldier  boy  that's  comin'  home  tonight. 

75 


DISCHARGED 

I  can  hear  the  old  town  callin'  an'  I'm  goin'  back 

"toot  sweet," 

To  the  little  girl  who's  waitin'  there  for  me. 
Then  I'll  never  be  regrettin'  all  the  Mam'selles  I'm 

forgettin', 
For  the  army  life  is  "fini"  and  I'm  free. 

Gee,  but  it's  great  to  forget  it ; 

The  mud,  and  the  blood,  and  the  strife ; 

I  went — and  I'll  never  regret  it, 

But  I'm  through  with  the  army  for  life. 


RETREAT 

Camp  Stanley — April  19. 

Inspection  Arms.     Port  Arms.     Dismissed. 

Good-bye — good  luck  to  you. 
We've  worked  together  three  long  months, 

But  now  this  work  is  through ; 
And  over  there,  across  the  sea, 

The  waiting  bugles  call 
To  sterner  tasks  for  you  and  me. 

Our  country  needs  us  all. 

We  may  not  meet  again,  old  pal, 

Let's  part  then,  with  a  smile ; 
This  Game  of  War  is  not  for  babes — 

At  that — it's  all  worth  while. 
Thank  God,  I've  lived  and  worked  with  Men, 

And  made  a  friend  or  two. 
Inspection  Arms.     Port  Arms.     Dismissed. 

Good-bye — good  luck  to  you. 


77 


HOMESICK 

I  kin  light  my  pipe  an'  see  it,  jest  as  plain  as  plain 

kin  be, 
In  the  smoke,  that  green-gold  valley  stretchin'  out 

before  my  eye, 

An'  the  wavy  silver  ribbon  of  the  river,  runnin'  free, 
An*  that  big,  old,  blue-black  mountain,  that's  humped 

up  agin  the  sky. 

Homesick?     Yes,  I'm  homesick.     I'm  sick  o'  the 

crowded  town, 
An'  the  busy  throngs  of  people,  stampedin'  up  an' 

down. 
They  pass  you,  never  smilin',  each  intent  on  his  own 

ends; 
They  are  busy  makin'  money ;  got  no  time  f  er  makin' 

friends. 


I'm  sick  o'  the  look  on  their  faces.    I'm  sick  o'  the 

rush  an'  noise, 
An'  I'd  swap  my  soul  f  er  a  friendly  look  or  the  sound 

of  a  friendly  voice. 

78 


HOMESICK 

Good,  old  Kipling  wrote  about  it.     Seems  he  made 
it  mighty  plain, 

"Youth  was  cheap ;  wherefore  we  sold  it. 

Gold  was  good ;  we  hoped  to  hold  it, 

And  today,  we  know  the  fullness  of  our  gain." 

Those   few   words  have  set  me  thinkin',  an'  I'm 

tellin'  you  it's  true. 
There  ain't  no  guess  about  it.    He  was  writin'  what 

he  knew, 
An'  I'm  learnin'  now  their  meanin' — see  it  clearer 

every  day, 
So  I'll  hit  the  trail  tomorrow,  an'  I'm  goin'  back  to 

stay. 

Sometimes  wonder  why  I  left  them,  all  the  folks  I 

used  to  know ; 
Home  and  friends  that  really  like  you,  those  are 

things  a  man  can't  buy ; 
'Course  I  thought  I'd  make  my  fortune  then,  but 

now  I'm  glad  to  go 
Where  that  big,  old,  blue-black  mountain  is  humped 

up  agin  the  sky. 


79 


THE  PIONEERS 

They  are  grey,  and  bent,  and  weary, 
With  the  weight  of  passing  years. 
Well  we  know  the  debt  we  owe  them, 
To  our  Sires — the  Pioneers. 

For  they  came  through  unknown  perils, 

Out  across  the  trackless  plain, 

Where  today  we  ride  in  comfort, 
Through  the  fields  of  golden  grain. 

Climbing  mountains,  fording  rivers, 

Always  looking  far  ahead, 

So  that  we,  who  follow  after, 

Might  be  warmed,  and  clothed,  and  fed. 

And  they  broke  the  first  long  furrows, 

Sowed  their  grain,  and  watched  it  grow, 

Patient  as  their  toiling  oxen. 

Can  we  pay  the  debt  we  owe? 

Then  came  sickness,  death,  and  sorrow, 

Still  they  faced  it,  all  alone, 

So  that  we,  who  follow  after, 

We  might  reap  where  they  have  sown. 

80 


THE  PIONEERS 

Who  can  tell  what  voice  was  calling? 

Who  can  tell  what  visions  fair, 

Lured  them  onward  till  they  found  it, 

Found  a  land  beyond  compare  ? 

Found  and  conquered  for  their  children, 

This  was  what  they  died  to  do. 
So  that  we,  who  follow  after, 
We  might  watch  their  dreams  come  true. 

Year  by  year,  their  ranks  grow  thinner, 

One  by  one,  our  nation's  pride 

Seek  another,  fairer  country, 

On  across  the  Great  Divide. 

Never  shall  their  memory  perish. 

We,  their  sons,  will  guard  their  fame. 
God  grant,  we,  who  follow  after, 
May  be  worthy  of  their  name. 


81 


ON  CLARK  STREET 

Alone,  I  walked  the  crowded  city  streets, 
One  tiny  atom,  mid  the  countless  throng 
Of  men  and  women,  hurrying  past, 
In  search  of  pleasure,  gold,  or  power, 
And  all  the  myriad  things  which  serve 
To  make  this  life  a  joy — but  none  had  time 
To  cast  a  cheery  glance,  or  smile, 
Or  speak  a  kindly  word. 

Alone,  I  walked — 
Till  suddenly  there  came  a  breath 
Of  fragrance,  like  a  vagrant  wind 
From  my  own  land — and  I  could  smell 
The  pine  and  sagebrush — and  could  see 
Those  white-capped  peaks  and,  at  their  feet, 
That  quiet  valley  I  call  "home" ; 
And  all  the  little,  sparkling,  mountain  streams 
That  rush  o'er  rocks  and  fallen  trees, 
And  stop  to  rest  in  deep  brown  pools, 
Where  speckled  trout  are  leaping  for  the  fly. 

The  fragrance  passed — 
And  once  again,  I  saw  the  walls  of  brick 
That  hemmed  me  in,  and  smelled  the  smoke 
And  odors  of  the  street. 

82 


ON  CLARK  STREET 

Then,  turning  round 
To  see  from  whence  the  perfume  came, 
I  saw  a  girl,  not  one  of  those  who  live 
Protected  from  the  world,  but  one  whose  fate 
Has  been  to  fight  the  stern  realities  of  life 
And  lose.    She  still  was  young,  and  yet, 
Her  painted  lips,  and  cheeks,  and  glances,  bold, 
Proclaimed  her  ancient  calling. 

She  smiled  and  went  her  way, 
And  never  knew  the  scent  she  wore  had  been 
The  magic,  which  conveyed  me  back, 
O'er  many  weary  miles  and  wearier  years,  and  gave 
A  moment  of  forgetfulness. 

O,  little  Painted  Lady  of  the  Streets, 
You  made  me  dream  again. 


THE  MISFITS 

Aye.     We  are  the  failures,  the  misfits. 

We  have  worked,  and  dreamed,  and  tried, 
But  we  were  not  made  from  the  stronger  clay 
Of  those  men  who  build  from  day  to  day 
On  their  past  mistakes.    We  can  only  pray, 

And  drift  with  the  ebbing  tide. 

No.    Not  the  unfit — the  misfits, 

The  men  who  are  out  of  place, 

The  artist-souls  in  the  marts  of  trade, 

All  discontent,  but  still  afraid 

To  leave  the  paths  their  Fathers  made, 
And  a  scornful  world  to  face. 

True.    We  are  but  failures,  mere  dreamers, 

But  what  if  our  dreams  came  true  ? 
Could  the  poet  over  his  ledgers  bent, 
Stifling  his  soul  with  cent  per  cent, 
Could  he  but  sing  the  feelings  pent — 

The  things  that  he  wished  to  do? 
The  leader,  who  if  the  Gods  were  kind, 
Might  sway  the  world  by  his  power  of  mind, 
Is  wasting  his  days  at  the  endless  grind 
For  the  sake  of  the  favored  few. 

84 


THE  MISFITS 

We  know  at  the  end  of  the  journey, 

At  the  hour  of  the  setting  sun, 
That  we  shall  be  classed  with  the  coward  slave, 
Who  buried  the  talents  his  Master  gave, 
For  we  are  mere  weaklings,  but  were  we  brave, 
Ah,  God !    What  we  might  have  done. 


THE  "HOLY"  WAR 

August,  1914 

"And  now,"  says  the  Kaiser  from  his  balcony  to 
the  people  in  the  streets,  "I  commend  you  to  God; 
go  to  your  church  and  kneel  before  God  and  pray 
for  our  gallant  army." 

"We,  Nicholas  II,  by  God's  grace  Emperor  and 
Autocrat  of  all  the  Russians,"  the  Czar  responds. 

"With  God's  help,"  echoes  Francis  Joseph. 

Yea.    This  is  a  great  and  holy  war. 

Our  Kings  have  told  us  so. 
With  blare  of  trumpet  and  flash  of  steel, 
And  white  above,  where  the  man-birds  wheel 
On  wings  of  Death,  while  the  wounded  reel, 

And  call  to  the  God  they  know. 

Our  Kings  have  said  'tis  a  holy  war. 
And  why  should  we  not  believe  ? 
We  pray  to  God  for  the  strength  to  kill 
Our  Fellow-men.    'Tis  our  Masters'  will; 

86 


THE  "HOLY"  WAR 

We  question  not,  but  their  wish  fulfill. 
For,  why  should  our  Kings  deceive  ? 

The  women  pray  in  the  village  church. 

Our  Kings  have  so  decreed. 
Though  Kings  and  Kingdoms  may  wax  and 

wane, 

Can  victory  soothe  the  mother's  pain, 
Who  weeps  today,  for  her  man-child  slain? 

What  prayers  can  meet  her  need? 

When  souls  of  peasant,  and  prince,  and  slave 
Shall  come  once  more  to  the  God  who  gave 
Them  life  and  power,  and  they  shall  meet, 
As  man  to  man,  at  the  Judgment  seat, 

Where  sits  our  God  on  high, 
Whom  will  He  blame  for  this  "holy"  war, 
The  peasant  soldier,  or  King  and  Czar, 

Who  sent  them  forth  to  die. 


MUMPS 

What  makes  a  fellow  want  to  swear  ?    What  makes 

his  heart  to  break? 
It's  not  appendicitis  nor  yet  the  stomach  ache. 

It's  the  mumps — just  the  mumps. 

That's  the  thing  that  makes  a  fellow  have  the 
jumps. 

It's  not  the  blooming  pain 

That  makes  us  all  complain, 
But 

It's  the  everlasting  swelling  of  the  everlasting 
mumps. 

Spasm  Two 

A  double  chin's  not  in  it.    In  fact  it  don't  compare. 

You've  chin  enough  for  three  or  four  and  then  a  bit 
to  spare. 

For  the  mumps — just  the  mumps, 
Are  enough  to  put  a  fellow  in  the  dumps, 
And  then  the  way  it  goes 
And  grows,  and  grows,  and  grows. 

Joy! 

It's  the  everlasting  swelling  of  the  everlasting 
mumps. 


MUMPS 

Final  Agony 

And  then,  the  lack  of  sympathy  that's  in  the  human 

race. 
They    laugh    at   all   your    suffering   and    call  you 

"Funny-Face." 

Oh,  the  mumps,  blooming  mumps ; 

When  I've  got  'em  is  the  time  my  spirit  slumps, 

And  I  moan  and  groan  and  curse, 

But  it  only  makes  'em  worse. 
Damn! 

It's  the  everlasting  swelling  of  the  everlasting 
mumps. 


DREAMS 

Do  dreams  always  go  by  contraries,  me  dear? 

Tell  me,  do  they  never  come  true? 
Wid  me  cigarette  gleaming, 
I  can  spend  the  hours  dreaming, 

While  a  voice  seems  to  whisper  of  you. 

"Frank,  me  boy,  your  life  you're  wasting. 
Tis  yoursilf,  that  should  be  hastening, 
Back  to  where  the  vagrant  breezes  make  the  solemn 

pine  trees  moan. 

Come  away  from  shows  and  parties, 
Go  you  back  there,  where  your  heart  is, 
Where  the  yellow  moon  is  rising  o'er  the  quiet 
Yellowstone." 

"Shure,  you  can,  you  must  remember, 
'Twas  an  evening  in  September, 
When  you  stood  and  watched  together,  just  the  girl 

and  you  alone, 

After  all  the  world  was  sleeping, 
And  the  stars  alone  were  peeping, 
As  you  dreamed  there  in  the  moonlight,  out  along 
the  Yellowstone." 

90 


DREAMS 

"Ah,  her  smile  was  so  entrancing, 
That  it  set  your  heart  a-dancing, 
Though  you  were  afraid  to  tell  her,  yet  of  course 

she  must  have  known ; 
And  perhaps,  sometimes  she's  thinking 
Of  the  boy,  whose  heart  is  sinking, 
Like  the  moon  that's  waiting  for  you,  out  beside 
the  Yellowstone. 

Do  dreams  always  go  by  contraries,  me  dear  ? 
Tell  me,  do  they  never  come  true? 

Shure,  if  dreams  are  deceiving, 

Tis  mesilf  that's  believing, 
That  I'll  have  to  quit  dreaming  of  you. 


91 


WEATHER  AND  WORK 

Our  hired  man,  he  sez,  sez  he, 
"The  change  the  weather  makes  in  me 
Is  somethin'  wonderful  to  see." 


"Fer  instance  now,  the  winter's  cold, 

It  makes  me  feel  I'm  gittin'  old, 

An'  somehow,  I  kain't  take  a-hold 

An'  work.    By  Gosh!  sez  he, 

"Ez  sure  ez  my  name  is  Ezry  Perk, 

I  never  was  no  hand  to  shirk, 

But  when  it's  cold,  the  thought  of  work, 

It  don't  appeal  to  me." 

"An'  when  the  sun  is  blazin'  down, 
A-shinin'  on  the  patch  o'  groun' 
Whar  I  am  sort  o'  diggin'  roun', 
You  know,"  sez  Ezry  Perk, 
"I  git  to  listenin'  to  the  bees 
A-hummin',  an'  in  all  the  trees 
The  birds  are  singin'  songs  of  ease, 
An'  then  I  jest  kain't  work." 


WEATHER  AND  WORK 

"An'  now,  when  fall  has  come  again, 
A-bringin'  days  o'  cold  and  rain, 
It  seems  to  me,  it  should  be  plain 
Sich  days  ain't  made   for  work. 
An'  then,  you  know,  sich  weather  is 
Most  powerful  bad  fer  rheumatiz, 
An'  if  I  worked  out-doors,  Gee  Whiz! 
'Twould  ruin  me,"  sez  Perk. 

"An  thar  is  my  philosophy. 

It  ain't  no  use  to  work,  by  Gee, 

Unless  the  weather's  right,"  sez  he. 


93 


THE  WELCOME 

In  Montana,  where  the  mountains  raise  their  snow 
capped  peaks  on  high, 
O,  the  blue-black  of  the  pines  against  the  snow — 

In  Montana,  where  the  prairies  run  far  out  to  meet 

the  sky, 

O,  the  murmur  of  the  breezes  to  and  fro — 
In  the  land  that  God  was  good  to, 
In  our  own,  the  last,  best  West, 
We  are  waiting,  while  we're  working, 
With  a  welcome  for  the  rest 
Of  the  men,  who  now  are  coming, 
And  the  others,  still  to  come, 
Who  shall  teach  their  children's  children 
To  call  Montana  "home." 

In  the  land  our  fathers  left  us,  in  the  land  our  sons 

shall  love, 

O,  the  treasures  of  the  mountain  and  the  plain — 
Midst   our   wealth   of   mines   and    forests,    fertile 

valleys,  rushing  streams, 
And  the  gently  waving  fields  of  golden  grain, 

94 


THE  WELCOME 

We  have  wealth,  unknown,  uncounted, 

Shall  we  cease  our  labors  then, 

With  our  land  still  undeveloped? 

What  we  need  today,  is  Men. 

Men,  we  want,  not  cowards  nor  weaklings, 

And  we  offer  you  a  home 

In  our  West,  the  land  of  promise. 

We  are  waiting  for  you.    Come ! 


95 


AMBITION 

Gee,  how  I  wish  'at  I  was  growed 

Up  big,  just  like  my  Paw, 

I  bet  I  wouldn't  waste  my  time 

A-tellin'  folks  the  law. 

I'd  be  a  P'liceman,  big  an'  grand, 

An'  wear  a  shiny  hat, 

An'  if  a  burglar  come  around, 

I'd  show  him  where  he's  at. 

Er  else  I'd  be  a  cowboy,  brave, 

Away  out  in  the  West. 

Of  all  the  broncho-busters  there, 

I'd  be  the  very  best. 

I'd  shoot  the  wolves  an'  Injuns  too, 

An'  scalp  'em  on  the  head, 

An'  cut  a  notch  on  my  pistol  stock, 

Fer  every  one  'at's  dead. 

I'd  like  to  be  a  robber  man, 
An'  help  'em  rob  a  train, 
Er  captain  of  a  battleship, 
An'  lick  them  folks  from  Spain. 

96 


AMBITION 

Er  I  might  be  a  pirate,  bold, 
An'  make  folks  walk  the  plank, 
An'  laff  aloud  with  awful  glee, 
Wen  they  hit,  ker-plunk,  an'  sank. 

My  Paw  is  just  the  smartest  man, 

But  I  can't  understand, 

Why  he  should  be  a  lawyer,  w'en 

He  might  play  in  the  band ; 

But  you  just  wait  till  I  get  big. 

I'll  show  'em  all  a  few, 

Fer  w'en  a  boy  is  clear  growed  up, 

There's  lot  of  things  to  do. 


r  97 


PAL  O'  MINE 

As  I  sit,  and  smoke,  and  ponder, 
Smiling  gently  through  the  haze 
From  my  pipe,  my  thoughts  will  wonder 
Back  to  you— and  high-school  days. 

Pal  o'  mine,  do  you  remember, 
Sometimes,  when  the  lights  are  low, 
All  the  things  we  planned  and  talked  of 
In  the  days  of  long  ago? 
All  those  rosy  colored  visions 
That  we  dreamed,  just  me  and  you, 
Things  that  time  would  surely  bring  us — 
Wonder  why  they  can't  come  true. 

Fame  and  riches,  joy  and  gladness, 
All  the  Future  held  in  store, 
They  were  ours.     No  thought  of  sadness 
Touched  our  dreams  in  days  of  yore. 
Days  ere  Life  had  lost  its  glamour, 
Ere  we  dreamed  of  duty's  chain, 
Days  of  youth,  of  love,  of  dreaming, 
Would  that  I  could  dream  again. 

98 


PAL  O'  MINE 

Let  me  turn  the  pages  backward, 
Back  to  where  all  dreams  were  true — 
To  C.  H.  S.,  our  Alma  Mater, 
Back  to  high-school  days — and  you. 


THE  COWBOY'S  LAMENT 

Thar  ain't  no  West,  no  more,  at  all. 

Thar  ain't  no  place  to  go. 
My  bronk  and  I  are  old  and  tired 

From  wanderin'  to  an'  fro, 
A-lookin'  for  some  place  to  live 

Whar  folks  ain't  crowded  so. 
They  tell  me,  we  are  out  of  date, 

An'  I  suppose  they  know. 

Fer,  somehow,  Progress  passed  us  by. 

I'm  glad  she  did  it  yet 
We're  relics  of  those  happy  days 

It  seems  I  can't  forget, 
When  coyotes  howled  upon  the  hills; 

My  eyes  are  kind  o'  wet. 
The  world  has  moved  an'  I've  stood  still, 

I  guess  I  shouldn't  fret. 

When  I  compare  those  days  with  these, 

A  lump  comes  in  my  throat ; 
To  think  o'  dressin'  like  a  dude! 

It  kind  o'  gets  my  goat, 
But  I've  packed  away  my  spurs  an'  chaps 

An'  bought  a  long-tail  coat. 
Montana's  gettin'  civilized, 

Since  wimmin  got  the  vote. 

IOO 


THE  PARTING  OF  THE  WAYS 

Is  it  not  strange? 

That  two  shall  come  from  lands  the  whole  wide 

world  apart. 
And  meeting  face  to  face,  shall  see  an  image 

clear, 

Their  image,  each  reflected  in  the  other's  heart, 
And,  seeing  this,  the  two,  without  a  thought 

of  fear, 
Shall  walk  a  little  way  together.     Then  shall 

part 

To  meet  no  more. 

And  going   each   their   different   ways,   midst 

faces,  new, 
And  different  scenes,  each  striving  to  forget 

their  love 
Shall  roam  alone.    Unknowing,  yet  their  whole 

lives  through 
Shall  seek  each  other.     Thus  the  Gods  above 

shall  prove 

Their   power.      And    we,    who    at    the    Fates 
defiance  threw, 

Shall  learn  too  late 

Our  error,  and  shall  struggle  back, 

But  meet  no  more. 

And  this  is  Fate. 
101 


GRACE 

Shure,  she  came  from  North  Dakota,  this  wild  rose 

av  the  West, 

From  the  land  where  pretty  girls  were  first  invented, 
An'  she's  set  me  heart  a-thumpin'  an'  she's  spoilin' 

av  me  rest. 
Tis  only  when  I  drame  av  her  thot  I  can  slape 

continted. 
The  little  birds,   they  sing  av  her.     The   breezes 

whisper  "Grace." 
I  wonder  if  she  hears  thim  too,  an'  if  she  thinks 

av  me. 

I  wonder  if  she  knows  the  whiles,  her  dainty  rose 
bud  face 
Is  haunting  all  me  waking  hours.     Me  thoughts, 

they  wander  free. 
An'  flyin'  off  on  vagrant  wing,  they  whisper  in  her 

ear, 
Thot  their  master,  an'  the  slave  av  her,  he  waits  to 

learn  his  fate. 
I  wonder,  will  their  answer  be  the  words  I  long  to 

hear 
From  me  wild  rose,  me  dream  rose,  me  rose  av  the 

Wild  Rose  state. 

1 02 


COIN'  AWAY 

I'm  sick  o'  the  sight  o'  the  prairies 

A-stretchin'  out,  mile  on  mile, 
I'm  sick  o'  the  snow  an'  the  blizzards. 
I'm  goin'  away  awhile. 

I  plugged  along  in  the  harness  fer  nigh  onto  thirty 

year. 
I  had  my  share  o'  troubles,  an'  I  had  my  share  o' 

cheer ; 
Jest  kep'  on  workin'  an'  workin',  the  way  that  a  man 

will  do. 
I  worked  for  the  kids  and  missus,  but  now  my  work 

is  through. 

The  kids  is  grown  up  an'  married,  an'  got  kidlets 

o'  their  own; 
The  missus,  she's  lyin  yonder,  underneath  that  big, 

white  stone 
Up  there  along  the  hillside.    I  wonder  if  she's  happy 

yet, 
Or  does  she  kind  o'  miss  us,  an'  the  worry,  work, 

an'  fret 

103 


COIN'  AWAY 

O'  the  years  we  spent  together.     Wonder  if  she 

wouldn't  come 
Back  an'  do  the  whole  thing  over.     But  her  work 

an*  mine  is  done. 


It's  hard,  this  sittin',  an'  thinkinVan'  waitin'  here 

all  alone 
For  the  call  to  come  an'  join  her.    Seems  that  call 

won't  never  come, 
Fer  there's  no  one  here  that  needs  me  an'  I  guess 

I've  earned  a  rest, 
An'  I  know  she's  waitin'  for  me  in  the  Islands  o' 

the  Blest. 

I'm  sick  o'  the  sight  o'  the  prairies, 
O'  the  springtime's  slush  an'  mud, 

An'  the  white-hot  glare  o'  the  summers ; 
I'm  goin'  away — fer  good. 


104 


AN  AWFUL  POEM 

You  know  Mrs.  Brown  told  Mrs.  Jones,  and  Mrs. 

Jones  told  me 
That  Mrs.  Brown's  hired  girl — yes,  you  know  I  was 

there  to  tea, 
And  I  said  I'd  never  tell  a  soul,  but  she  won't  mind, 

I  guess, 
And  you  know,  Miss  Green,  of  course  it's  none 

of  my  business, 

But  ain't  it  awful? 

And  then,  that  Mr.  What's-his-name,  that  married 

Emma  Bird, 
Course  I  don't  know  how  true  it  is,  but  that's  just 

what  I  heard. 
And  folks  are  talking  scandalous,  but  his  wife  don't 

seem  to  care, 

I  never  told  a  soul  before.    It's  none  of  my  affair, 
But  ain't  it  awful? 

Yes,  I  heard  she  dyed  her  hair  and  she  paints  some 
too,  I  guess. 

Don't  Mrs.  Smithson  look  a  fright  in  that  tight- 
fitting  dress? 

105 


AN  AWFUL  POEM 

You'd  think  that   she  was  old  enough — and  that 

awful  looking  hat — 
What's  that,   Miss  Green?     Well,  did  you  ever? 

What  do  you  think  of  that? 
Now,  ain't  it  awful? 

They  say  he  drinks  an  awful  lot,  and  we  thought  he 

was  so  nice, 
But  you  can't  tell  about  these  men — and  I  saw  him 

shaking  dice, 
And  that's  just  as  bad  as  gambling.    What's  that, 

you  don't  have  to  go  ? 
You're  going  to  call  on  Mrs.  Who?    Yes,  someone 

told  me  so, 

And  ain't  it  awful  ? 


106 


COMING  HOME 

There's  red  bandannas  wavin'  an'  a-flutterin'  in  the 

breeze, 
An'   the    shoutin'   of    the    people    comes    a-ringin' 

through  the  trees, 
Like  a  wind  from  off  the  prairies,  which  is  comin' 

just  to  say 
An'  repeat  the  stirrin'  message,  "Teddy  comes  to 

town,  today." 

We've  been  watchin'  fer  his  comin'  out  here  in  the 
Golden  West, 

Fer  we  know  that  he  is  one  of  us,  a  man  just  like  the 
rest 

Of  the  folks  who  faced  the  hardships  of  the  fron 
tiers,  up  an'  down, 

An'  that's  why  we're  all  excited  when  our  Teddy 
comes  to  town. 

He's  runnin'  now  fer  president — don't  seem  it  can 

be  true, 
But  he's  just  the  same  ol'  Teddy,  older  some,  like 

me  and  you — 
He's  got  that  same  ol'  fightin'  jaw,  an'  happy  grin — 


an   say 


I'm  goin'  to  vote  fer  Teddy,  an'  he's  comin'  home 
today. 

107 


THE  GOD  OF  CONVENTIONALITY 

When  first  the  thought  of  worship  drove  our  sires 
to  seek  a  God, 

They,  finding  nothing  fitting,  built  an  idol  out  of  mud, 

And,  as  some  truth  was  shrined  therein,  they  said 
their  work  was  good 

And  taught  their  sons  to  worship — calling  aloud  on 
Its  name; 

E'en  made  them  Priests  of  Its  temple;  forgetting 
whence  It  came, 

Forgetting  they  had  made  It ;  they  bowed  and  wor 
shipped  the  same. 

When  younger  Priests  approached  and  saw  beneath 

the  gold,  the  clay, 
They  kept  the  matter  quiet — for  what  would  their 

Elders  say? 

Thus  It  was  handed  downward,  and  so  we  were 

taught  in  youth 
To  bow  to  Gods  of  Secret  Shame  for  the  sake  of  the 

Lesser  Truth, 

1 08 


THE  GOD  OF  CONVENTIONALITY 

And  the  monstrous  Thing  that  our  fathers  built  is 

holy  still.    In  sooth 
It  seems  the  Devil  must  sometimes  smile,  watching 

our  sacrifice. 
We  crucify  for  that  man-made  God,  our  honor,  our 

very  lives, 
For  the  sake  of  our  fathers'  teaching — and  fear  of 

our  neighbors'  eyes. 

We  know  the  God  is  false,  and  yet,  we  bow  our 

heads  and  pray, 
For  are  we  not  His  Prophets — and  what  would  the 

others  say  ? 


109 


POLITICS 

Elijah  Brown  sez  politics 
Is  one  thing  that  won't  never  mix 
With  business,  but  he  sez,  sez  he, 
"I  hear  my  country's  call  fer  me, 
An'  I  don't  want  it  ever  sed, 
In  days  to  come  when  I  am  dead, 
That  'Lijah  Brown  refused  to  do 
His  duty.     From  my  p'int  o'  view, 
It  seems  to  me 
We  need,"  sez  he, 

"Sum  men  in  Congress  who  are  strong 
An'  steadfast  foes  o'  graft  an'  wrong; 
Who'll  fight  the  Trusts,  both  night  and  day, 
An'  know  what's  wrong  with  Schedule  K. 
My  friends  are  beggin'  me  to  run, 
An'  now,  this  yere  campaign's  begun 
My  hat  is  in  the  ring,"  sez  he. 
"I'll  save  the  country — vote  for  me." 
****** 

He  passed  seegars  around  an'  we, 
Each  one  agreed  with  'Lijah  B. 


no 


MY  PIPE  AND  I 

From  the  land  of  the  German  Kaiser 

Comes  this  friend  I  hold  tonight, 
Carved  out  by  some  skillful  workman 

From  the  clay,  so  pure  and  white. 
It  is  only  an  old,  old  meerschaum. 

It  is  old  and  brown,  but  sweet, 
My  one  true   friend,  who   will  stick   to  the   end, 

Though  sorrow  and  pain  we  meet. 

Far  out  on  the  Western  prairies 

I  have  taken  this  friend  of  mine. 
I've  smoked  it  amid  the  mountains, 

And  in  forests  of  spruce  and  pine. 
It  tells  me  tales  of  the  joys  that  were 

And  the  trials  that  are  to  be. 
Sadness  grips  my  heart  as  the  smoke-clouds  part 

And  reveal  the  past  to  me. 

Faces  of  girls  I  used  to  love, 

And  pals  that  I  used  to  know; 
Things  I  thought  I  had  long  forgot 

And  that  happened  long  ago. 
Bitter,  yet  sweet,  are  the  thoughts,  tonight, 

That  come  rushing  back  to  me 
Of  "auld  lang  syne,"  for  all  that  is  mine, 

Is   my  pipe — and  Memory. 

in 


THE  WHISPERIN'  LADY 

The  Whisperin'  Lady,  she  whispered  to  me, 

I  can't  tell  you  just  what  she  said, 
But,  somehow,  the  wur'rld  it  seems  brighter  to  be 
And,  shure,  it  seems  gladder  and  fuller  av  glee. 

Me  hear'rt  is  no  longer  like  lead. 
'Tis  happy  as  iver  a  captive  can  be, 
Since  the  Whisperin'  Lady  whispered  to  me. 

The  Whisperin'  Lady  is  lovely  to  see. 

Me  hear'rt  jumps  like  mad  whin  she's  nigh. 
No  colleen  in  Ireland  is  sweeter  than  she ; 
It  wasn't  the  wur'rds  that  she  whispered  to  me. 

I  can't  tell  you  just  why  I  sigh. 
Me  hear'rt  is  a  captive,  nor  longs  to  be  free, 
Since  the  Whisperin'  Lady  whispered  to  me. 


112 


ECONOMY 

Hiram  Griggs,  he  sez,  sez  he, 

"This  town  ain't  what  it  orter  be. 

Grocery  business  gettin'  slack. 

Dunno  why,  but  that's  a  fac', 

But,"  sez  he, 

"Economy 

Is  my  motto." 

Then  he  went 

Back  into  the  store  an'  sent 

An  order  off  to  Mr.  Rears 

An'  Sawbuck  fer  a  pair  o'  shears, 

Five  pair  o'  socks,  a  Sunday  hat, 

A  base-ball  suit  an'  mit  an'  bat 

Fer  little  Jim,  six  yards  o'  silk, 

A  patent  strainer  fer  the  milk, 

A  gingham  dress  fer  Mrs.  Hi, 

An'  then  sez  he,  "I  don't  see  why 

The  grocery  business  ain't  no  good, 

Though  I've  been  doin'  all  I  could. 

As  fur  as  I  kin  see,  it  must 

Be  all  becuz  the  Sugar  Trust, 

Er  some  o'  them  big  moneyed  men 

Is  robbin'  us  poor  folks  again, 

But,  you  see, 

Economy, 

It  is  my  motto  still,"  sez  he. 

"3 


TO  THE  GODDESS  NICOTINE 

Smoking  my  pipe  in  the  evening  and  just  sort  of 

dreaming  dreams, 
In  the  long  Dakota  twilight,  or  by  winter  firelight's 

gleams, 
Watching  the  smoke  curl  upward — with  my  heart 

from  sorrow  free, 
As  I  burn  upon  thy  altar  my  offering  to  thee. 

Oh,  thou  Goddess,  friend  to  mankind,  asking  naught 
and  giving  all ; 

Well  pleased  if  we  but  worship  and  enjoy  thy  pleas 
ing  thrall, 

Giving  solace  to  our  sorrows,  and  peace  when  hearts 
are  sad. 

(Yet,  they  wonder  that  we  worship  and  scoffers  call 
us  mad.) 

Still  we  show  them  naught  but  pity.  Poor  fools,  they 
can  never  know 

Half  the  wonder  and  the  beauty  of  the  clouds 
of  smoke  we  blow. 

Though  we  turn  from  thee  in  anger  or  to  follow  gods 

more  new, 
They  are  merely  fleeting  fancies,  for  we  all  return 

to  you. 

114 


TO  THE  GODDESS  NICOTINE 

Soon  or  late,  we  must  come  back  to  our  first  Divinity, 
Mistress  of  Sorrow,  Joy,  and  Hope,  of  Love  and 

Hate  is  she, 
And  in  the  smoke  of  a  million  pipes,  our  loyalty  is 

seen. 
'Tis  the  incense  from  our  altars  to  our  Goddess, 

Nicotine. 

Smoking  my  pipe  in  the  evening  and  just  sort  of 

dreaming  dreams, 
In  the  long  Dakota  twilight  or  by  winter  firelight's 

gleams, 
Watching  the  smoke  curl  upward — with  my  heart 

from  sorrow  free, 
Still  I  burn  upon  thy  altar  my  offering  to  thee. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  "BO" 

I'm  not  so  very  pretty  and  I  guess  I  need  a  shave, 
And  the  style  of  clothes  I'm  wearing  won't  make 

the  ladies  rave. 
I'm  a  menace  to  the  country,  so  you  say.     Perhaps 

you  know. 

But  here's  my  little  song. 
It  ain't  so  very  long, 

For  I  ain't  no  literary  gent ;  I'm  just  a  common  "bo." 
****** 

Did  you  ever  have  a  feeling — just  want  to  get  away  ? 
A  Voice  just  sort  of  calling  and  commanding 

you  to  go 
Somewhere  else,  away  from  here — just  moving  day 

by  day? 

If  you've  ever  heard  that  Voice  you'll  under 
stand  and  know 

The  reason  why  I'm  moving  on.    I  haven't  got  a  cent, 
But  I  heard  that  Voice  a-calling,  and  I  dropped  my 
work  and  went. 

I've  held  a  lot  of  different  jobs  in  this  old  world 

so  wide, 

And  some  of  them  looked  good  to  me.    I  thought 
I'd  stick  awhile, 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  "BO" 

I  thought  I'd  work  and  save  my  coin  and  go  to 

church  beside, 
And  maybe  go  and  see  the  folks  when  I'd  made 

my  little  pile. 
But — I'd  just  get  nicely  settled  down  to  live  like 

other  men, 

When  that  Voice  would  come  a-calling — and  I'd  nit 
the  trail  again. 


Riding  in  a  box  car  and  begging  hand-outs  at  the 

door, 
And  still  that  Voice  is  whispering  to  me,  its 

message  low, 
"Go  on,  still  on,  the  world  is  wide  and  you  should  see 

some  more. 
"Life's  none  too  long  to  see  it  all,  so  jump  the 

train  and  go 
"Somewhere  else,  no  matter  where,  from  the  Lakes 

to  Mexico." 
There's  naught  on  earth  can  hold  me,  when  that 

whisper  bids  me  go. 


So  I've  lost  all  hopes  of  st6pping.    I  must  be  hiking 

soon, 
And  I  suppose  I'll  keep  a-moving  on  until  the 


117 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  "BO" 

For  the  rattle  of  a  freight  train  is  far  the  sweetest 

tune 
To  my  ears,  of  any  music.    She's  coming  round 

the  bend, 
And  I  must  be  moving  on  again.    My  friends,  I'll 

say  "Good  bye." 
It's  my  fate.     The  Voice  has  spoken.     I  must  go 

until  I  die. 


I  ain't  no  literary  gent.    I'm  just  a  common  "bo," 
And  my  style  ain't  really  polished,  but  now  perhaps 

you'll  know 

And  understand  the  reason,  why  it  is  I  can't  remain 
All  my  life  on  one  same  shift, 
Why  I  jump  my  job  and  drift. 
For  I  like  my  work  and  you — but  I've  heard  that 
Voice  again. 


118 


NORTH  DAKOTA 

From  many  towns,  from  many  states,  with  faith 

and  hope  came  we, 
And  some  of  us  from  distant  lands  that  lie  across 

the  sea. 
With  many  hopes,  with  many  aims,  with  many  ends 

in  view, 
From  the  frozen  North  and  torrid  South,  to  the  land 

where  dreams  come  true. 
And  though  we  love  the  homeland, 

We  love  thee  still  the  best, 
Our  generous  foster  mother, 
Our  Lady  of  the  West. 

Wre  love  thy  hills,  we  love  thy  plains  where  glows  the 

golden  grain: 
We  love  thee  in  thy  many  moods,  in  sunshine  and 

in  rain. 
Thy  winds  bring  health;  thy  fields  bring  wealth; 

and  happiness  is  free, 
For  no  man  ever  worked  in  vain  for  his  reward  from 

thee. 
Though  we  must  toil  to  earn  thy  gifts, 

Thy  sons  ne'er  ask  for  rest, 
When  thy  spirit  bids  them  labor, 
Our  lady  of  the  West. 

119 

•»•-  * 


NORTH  DAKOTA 

So,  here's  a  toast  from  thy  loyal  sons  to  the  land 

we  love  the  best ; 
A  toast  (we  must  drink  it  in  water)  to  Our  Lady 

of  the  West. 


12* 


THE  SLAVES  OF  THE  COMMONPLACE 

Ye  have  sung  the  praise  of  the  heroes, 

Their  trials  and  victories 
For  the  honor  of  the  homeland, 

In  the  lands  across  the  seas. 
Oft  their  valor  has  been  proven 

And  their  worth,  that  all  may  know, 
But — here's  the  tale  of  the  other  man, 

The  man  who  couldn't  go. 

Oh,  the  wanderlust  is  in  us  and  we  want  to  go  away, 
But  home  and  duty  call  us — and  we  cannot  choose 

but  stay. 

When  the  trumpets  call  to  battle, 

And  the  streets  ring  out  with  cheers, 
When  the  mothers  and  the  sweethearts 

Try  to  smile  and  hide  their  tears ; 
It  is  then  that  we  are  saddest, 

It  is  then  we  feel  the  weight 
Of  the  burden  that  is  on  us, 

Who  can  only  work  and  wait. 

121 


THE  SLAVES  OF  THE  COMMONPLACE 

It  were  sweet  to  die  in  battle  while  the  war-cry 

loudly  rings, 
But  some  of  us  must  stay  at  home — slaves  of  the 

Common  Things. 

It  is  not  that  we  are  cowards, 

Though  some  may  call  us  so. 
The  voice  of  Duty  bids  us  stay. 

(God  knows,  we  want  to  go.) 
For  some  are  free  to  roam  the  world 

And  fight  for  their  country's  fame, 
But  some  must  work  to  feed  the  rest, 

And  care  for  the  sick  and  lame. 

In  the  endless  round  of  the  Commonplace,  we  live 

and  work  and  die. 
Though  our  lives  are  spent  in  petty  things — our  souls 

for  freedom  crv. 


122 


THE  JESTERS 

Arrayed  in  motley,  sat  the  jesting  Fates, 
Playing  at  chess  with  laughter,  joke,  and  song, 
Our  earth  for  chess-board,  nations  for  the  squares 
On  which  they  moved,  unheeding,  right  or  wrong. 
A  game — no  more — in  which  it  mattered  not 
Who  won  or  lost.    Nor  did  they  keep  a  score 
Of  games  completed.    When  a  pawn  or  king 
Had  done  its  little  part  to  win,  the  thing 
Was  cast  aside  as  worthless,  used  no  more. 


Yet  we,  the  pawns  their  careless  fingers  move, 
We  wonder  why  we  work,  and  fight,  and  love. 


1-23 


AFTERWORD 

All  through  this  book,  if  you  have  had  the  patience 
to  read  it,  you  have  found  poems  about  girls,  many 
girls,  but  never  a  word  about  my  one  real  sweetheart. 

I  have  tried  to  write  verses  about  her,  but  failed. 
The  English  language  is  pitifully  inadequate  and 
my  little  jingles  are  almost  a  desecration  when  ap 
plied  to  her. 

If  there  is  any  merit  in  this  book,  if  there  is  any 
merit  in  anything  I  have  ever  done,  the  credit  belongs 
to  her — my  Mother. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FAC 


A    001  278  297    5 


